


arise; ascend

by littleleotas



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Freeform, M/M, Multi, The Little Mermaid AU, exorbitant use of literary references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12944412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleleotas/pseuds/littleleotas
Summary: A merman named James longed for the world above the waves. One day he saw a human couple that spurred him into action, changing all of their lives forever.A Little Mermaid AU.





	arise; ascend

**Author's Note:**

> what even is this, I do not know
> 
> I have vaguely incorporated some show spoilers, particularly The Big Spoiler, so if you want to go into the show unspoiled, read further at your own risk.
> 
> Massive thanks to everyone in the block whose support for a fic you have no fandom reference for is just so wonderful and appreciated ♥

_16\. The things you think about determine the quality of your mind. Your soul takes on the colour of your thoughts. Colour it with a run of thoughts like these:_  
_i. Anywhere you can lead your life, you can lead a good one. —Lives are led at court. . . . Then good ones can be._  
_ii. Things gravitate toward what they were intended for. What things gravitate toward is their goal. A thing’s goal is what benefits it—its good._  
\- Marcus Aurelius, Meditations  
  
-  
  
The sunlight shining down, refracted through the water overhead, and the stars sending their light over unimaginable distances to twinkle in the dark night sky, between passing clouds – this story is the same, of the long journey love sometimes must make just to touch its distant object, of the obstacles it must break through, of the sadness that stretches for what seems like it will be forever and the joy when it is met.

Under the waves, merfolk glide out of cold, deep, dark caverns and see the shining rays of golden sunlight, illuminating the sea’s dust, specks of tiny creatures and dead crumbs of plants, making it glimmer like the luminescent creatures of the deep, their dancing orchestra of light flashing in the corners of the eye. The sun’s warmth reaches down through the water, and the merfolk smile as it gently touches their faces as they swim through, giving it no further thought as they move on.

There was once a merman whose name was James, and he stopped in the underwater rays of the sun. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the light, and wondered what it felt like above the waves. Merfolk knew that the world above was harsh, cruel, chaotic, and painful; they knew that humans were vicious and violent, and nothing of value awaited merfolk in the human world. But James wondered, still.

He waited one day as his companions swam through the sun’s rays, and he stopped, waiting for them to move out of sight. He turned his face upwards, tentatively glancing back to make sure they had not returned for him, and broke the surface. The light was blinding, and his eyes screwed shut, blinking forcefully as he tried to open them and found himself unable. The pain receded, and as he calmed, blinking with more ease, he almost forgot to bask in the warmth of the sun as he looked around him. Giant ships, whole and new, unlike the ones festering on the rocks at the bottom of the sea – cloth fluttering in the wind, bells chiming loud and clear through the air, and throngs of people – a sea of colours, a cacophony of voices. The shore was not close, and he could not distinguish the humans and their words from one another. He began to move closer, but he froze, suddenly. The mistrust of their world was so deeply set in the minds of merfolk; what horrors lurked behind the gaiety he saw ahead of him? He sank slowly back beneath the waves, his eyes drinking in every part of the picture before him as it slipped away.

He returned many days and nights afterwards, hiding behind rocks and watching the tearful send-offs as lovers were sent out to sea, the joyous reunions, the howling despair of the receivers of unwelcome news, the whirling bright colours of the dancers’ costumes on nights when musicians played at the docks by torchlight. He saw no cruelty, no chaos, no violence, and he wondered if his people had not been misinformed.

One morning he went to watch the ships leave, as he often did. The sun was rising in a bright red sky, casting soft rosy light over the workers on the docks loading cargo onto the ships and sailors bidding their sweethearts farewell. The latter were his favourites to watch: the intensity of sadness and passion in the faces, the grasping touches in case they were the last, the tears of saltwater that run down to join the sea, sending a little of themselves out with their loves. One couple in particular caught his eye: tall, graceful, statuesque. The man’s face was so gentle, and his hands looked so strong, but so soft as they brushed the woman’s wispy brown curls off her face. Her smile was warm, her hands delicate and precisely placed on the lapels of his coat. James could not hear them from where he sat, but they said few words anyway. It was the fire in the air between them, alight in the red sun, something powerful yet warm and comforting that drew him in like an unsuspecting prey fish drawn helplessly to the light of an anglerfish’s lure.

He lost his balance leaning forward on the rock and his tail splashed in the water. The couple looked in his direction just as he dove underneath the dock in a blur of orange, lost in the red sky’s light. Their attention returned to each other and he surfaced under the spot on which they stood. He looked up at them between the wooden planks, and his heart swelled close to bursting upon seeing them kiss. He could hear their soft murmurs of “I love you,” as they broke apart and he boarded the ship. The man’s footsteps grew quieter as he walked away, and the woman straightened her posture, holding her neck high and her hands folded elegantly at her stomach. James’s hand reached up, his fingertips grazing the planks under her feet.

The ship left the dock, and the merman followed shortly after. The place in his chest where his heart should have been felt empty, as if he had left it with the couple on the dock. A throbbing ache reminded him every second that it was gone, and he struggled to move, pulled forward toward the ship and backward toward the dock simultaneously, like a magnet frozen between two poles. Without a second thought, he turned on the spot and dove straight down, down through ink-black waters, toward the distant light of the sea witch’s lair.

The rotting bones of sunken ships, their rusted iron and splintered wood were her garden. The pathway to her door was lined with broken shells, small holes bored through betraying how the animals that once called them home met their ends. James tentatively swam up to her door, which opened before he reached it. He went through to find her seated on a bleached coral chair in the empty centre of the room, beneath a hole rotted away in the ship’s deck overhead. Tame eels curled around the chair’s feet, their eyes following him curiously. Her long black hair gently floated in the current, and her wide, unblinking, pupil-less orange eyes reflected the yellow orbs illuminating the dark depths of the groaning shipwreck she made her home. He shivered, though the water was no colder here than above, and floated nervously in front of her. The door closed with a piercing creak behind him.

“I know what you want,” her voice seemed to ooze from her mouth, thick and viscous. “It’s foolish of you.”

He bristled in defence. “I don’t care what you think,” he said obstinately.

“It isn’t what I think,” the witch said, idly examining her long, sharp nails. “It’s merely a fact.” She dropped her fingers one by one on the arm of the chair and turned to face him. “You will have your way though, won’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

He bit his tongue to stop the nervous shake, lifting his chin defiantly. The witch laughed and pushed herself up out of her chair, propelling herself rapidly to hover over him. She traced his jawline, looking down at him with her head tilted, and she pursed her lips slightly. “Pity.”

He held his head still, clenching his jaw, tensing under her touch, and his eyes moved upward to meet her pupil-less gaze. “There’s nothing for me here,” he said earnestly.

“Nothing? Eternal life is nothing?” Her voice seemed to wrap around him like her eels, and the contact of her voice reaching his ears was cold and constricting.

“I would rather die with them than live forever without them.” His voice cracked, emotion strangling the words in his throat despite the force and conviction he tried to convey. The sight of them flashed into his mind, their soft touches, the light in their eyes, and it destroyed any pretence he had hoped to build to hide his desperation.

The witch moved backwards and clicked her tongue. James still felt cold bindings constricting him, though nothing bound him. “And I suppose the prince and princess will just fall in love with you the moment you wash ashore.”

“I-“ James paused, frowning. “It…would be enough,” he said, his voice lowering gradually, almost to a whisper, “To be near them.”

She turned away from him, gliding through the dark shadows of the room, her arms filling with bottles and tools. “No beauty on land compares to the wonders of the sea,” she said as she worked, not looking back toward him. “Only those who stay here live long enough to see that. But never mind.” She turned back toward him, the light reflecting in her eyes causing a faint glow. “I will give you your legs. Every step will be as if on knives. All you will know is pain, and then death. And still you want this?”

“Yes.” He attempted defiance, but it came out as a plea.

She nodded, and took a dark knife from the pile in her arms. “I do not do this for free, you know.”

His mouth fell open slightly in surprise. She pursed her lips, smirking. “Is it worth it, still?”

“Yes, they are,” he nearly growled.

The witch threw her head back in a laugh. “Oh, I like you, James. It is a sadness to lose you.” She raised her knife, pointing the tip toward his mouth. “Your tongue, for your legs.”

James closed his mouth tightly, and sensation left his fingers. He looked down and saw the eels wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He looked down at his tail, the orange seeming dull and distant, as if it were already an old memory. He closed his eyes and swallowed, and looked up at the witch, his face set in determination. “Do it.”

The first touch of the knife was shockingly cold, but not as shocking as the pain that followed. His mouth filled with the taste of copper and his howls were quickly silenced by water rushing into his lungs. He snapped his mouth shut and kicked – and one leg moved. He did not remember the tail disappearing, nor did he remember leaving the witch’s lair, but suddenly he was moving up through the dark ocean, toward the distant light of the moon.

His legs moved erratically, out of rhythm, his arms clawing up through the water toward the much-needed air. Dark shapes drifted between him and the moonlight, and he looked to his left to see a ship, half-sunken, broken planks drifting down toward the ocean floor, ropes wrapped around lifeless bodies. James grasped at a drifting rope attached to a barrel and pulled himself up, gasping and coughing as he broke the top of the water and collapsed on top of the barrel. Torrential rain pelted his back as he caught his breath, and as the black shapes clouding his vision dissipated, a bolt of lightning illuminated the sinking ship.

James saw the prince momentarily in the light and his new-found breath caught. The prince gasped, clinging to a broken plank. He grasped for a rope swinging from the mast but missed as the mast snapped, the wave it created as it fell masking the scene. James tried to yell for him, but the small, strangled noise he made was lost in the storm. The wave receded in time for James to see the prince slip off the end of the plank, plunging suddenly underneath the churning waves. James reached out immediately, and lost his own balance, falling off the side of the barrel. He could no longer see in the dark water, and as hard as he looked for the prince, the blackness swallowed everything before his eyes. The water was piercingly cold, and its movement too strong for James to fight. He grasped blindly above his head until he felt a rope, and pulled himself up.

The sea was swallowing the ship faster every second, the ship’s groaning and creaking like crying out in pain. James threw himself over a floating barrel, looking around frantically for the prince. A clap of thunder ripped through the air, flowing seamlessly into the ship’s loud groaning. James turned his head sharply – and was knocked out by a falling crate.

-

He awoke in the warm sunlight half beneath a tattered sail, the gritty sand sticking to his skin. He opened his eyes and lifted his head, blinking as his eyes adjusted. Debris from the ship littered the beach: snapped wooden planks, barrels dashed on the rocks, fraying ropes. He pushed himself up, groaning with effort. Every part of him was sore, and he winced silently as he moved. He rolled to his side and leaned back, surveying the wreckage.

A figure in the distance, in a long, linen dress moved along the beach. As she neared him, he recognised the princess, her arms folded over her chest as she pored over the debris. The breeze caught the loose wispy strands of brown hair framing her face, and despite the fear and worry apparent in her face, James saw the fire inside her shine through. He momentarily forgot he was in pain, flooded with warmth at the sight of her. She walked closer, and noticed him, suddenly gasping and running over, kneeling at his side.

“Are you alright, sir?” she asked, her warm brown eyes dark with concern.

He nodded, pushing himself further up, and wincing again. With a small fretful noise, she reached her arms out to his shoulders. “Please, don’t strain yourself.” She took a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, gently nudging his chin up toward her as she dabbed the blood and sand off his face. She breathed in as if she were about to say something, but pressed her lips together and continued wiping his face. He looked up at her, admiring the focus in her expression. The gentleness he had seen as she bid the prince goodbye was faintly visible in her eyes, masked with an uneasy sense of duty; she was almost audibly humming with stress, as hard as she tried to be a source of comfort.

“What is your name, sir?” she said. Anyone else would have been relieved to hear the calm and kindness in her voice, but James recognised the mask deflecting from her troubles. He swallowed and patted his throat. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked at him questioningly. His eyes were captivated by hers, his heart fluttering as she looked into his while he did the same. The look in her eyes when she bid farewell to the prince was there, not at the forefront, but waiting. To see it from this distance, rather than through planks on the dock, nearly brought him to tears; it was not all he wanted, but it was more than he had ever had.

He rested his fingers on the front of his throat and shook his head. “Ah,” she said. She continued cleaning the blood off him in silence for a few moments. He closed his eyes, relishing the sensation of her fingertips on his skin.

“Were you, by any chance, aboard the Calpurnia?” she asked, haltingly.

He opened his eyes, inhaling shakily. The mask of pleasantry had disappeared, and fear creased every line of her face. There was hope, pleading in her eyes, but surrounded by certainty of the worst. He pondered for a moment, and shook his head.

Her lips pressed in a straight line, as she looked down and nodded, her hands falling into her lap. “I see.” She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, and turned to face him. “Well, we can sort this out later.” She rose to her knees and stood up, brushing sand off her skirt. She reached a hand down to him, and he looked blankly at it, then back to her face.

“Will you come with me?” she asked.

He nodded, and moved his legs underneath the sail, drawing his knees up and flattening his feet on the sand. The pain his body was in from the storm’s battering was a dull, throbbing ache, but the witch’s words returned to him as he prepared to stand. He held the sail in place with one hand and braced the other behind him. He gritted his teeth, and pushed his weight forward.

His wordless scream was a howl that tore through his throat. It was, as promised, like knives shooting into his feet and up through his legs. He fell forward, dropping his grip on the sail as he collapsed to his knees. The piercing pain dulled to a throbbing ache as he knelt, panting. The princess dropped again to his side, lifted his arm over and across her shoulders, and put her arm across his back to help him up. With her assistance, he rose to his feet again, and the white hot light of pain consumed him.

-

When James next opened his eyes, he saw an ivory white ceiling. It was not particularly remarkable, save for it being the first true ceiling he had ever seen. The barrier hiding the sky was – odd, even an annoyance. The ceiling was still, nothing moved across it, no clouds across the sky, no seagulls riding the wind currents. It was dull and disappointing. Not that he had particularly high hopes for ceilings that had been dashed; what he had observed of the human world before leaving the sea was all so wonderful, that to be confronted with something so mundane was an affront.

A soft salty breeze wafted through the tall windows across the room, gently blowing the sheer white curtains. James’s gaze rested on the curtains softly, thinking with a smile of the dancers’ whirling skirts he had seen at the night-time dances. The curtains had a delicacy to them that the dancers did not have – a delicacy he associated with the princess, and the image of her pressing her hands to the lapels of the prince’s coat rose to his memory. The prince. The soft goodbye was rudely interrupted by the memory of the prince slipping off the wreckage in the storm-

James bolted upright, a cold chill constricting his ribcage at the memory. He shivered, glancing at the window. The setting sun cast long shadows over the beach. He felt his breath evening out as he listened to the soft rolling of the waves, the seagulls’ familiar calls, the wind rustling the curtains. His gaze moved inward from the curtains, to the rest of the room he found himself in. The walls were a light brown, like the sand on the shallow sandbars. A small wooden table next to the bed held a candle in a gold holder, burnt down only slightly, and a small stool with a white cushion sat next to it. A small desk and a chair were in the corner of the room closest to the bed, papers in neat stacks covering the desk’s surface. What was of most interest were the bookcases; a matched pair, full to the brim with books, weathered and jewel-toned volumes with fading gold writing on the spines. Books had often fallen with shipwrecks, and though he could not read them, he traced their pages, devouring each illustrated glimpse of the world above.

He gingerly moved his legs to the side of the bed, took a deep breath, and stood. A cry of pain escaped him, but he gritted his teeth and took a step, and another. His steps were arduous, and the rest of his body shook with pain and effort. Upon reaching the bookcase, he collapsed forward, his arm flat on a shelf, holding all his weight. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily, deliberately.

The door opened beside him, and the princess stepped through, holding a tray with a teapot, a sugar bowl, a small cup of milk, and two teacups. She looked over at his collapsed form on the bookshelf and smiled, fondly reproving, as she put the tray down on the bedside table.

“While I understand the overwhelming desire for a book, you really shouldn’t be out of bed,” she said as she helped him limp back to the bed. He clutched her arm as they made their way across the room, his tight grip easing as he sat. His fingertips dragged softly along her arm as he removed his hand. She looked at him curiously, then exhaled a small hummed laugh, and pulled the blanket over his legs as he leaned back, sitting up in the bed.

She turned away as he flushed and bit his lip, her hand moving across the spines of the books on the shelf without touching them. She selected a large brown volume with black lettering on the spine, and laid it flat in one hand, placing the other hand on top of it. She turned, looking fondly at the book, and tapped her fingers on the top. She nodded slightly, confirming whatever she had been thinking, and moved her hands to the sides of the book as she walked to the bed and handed it to James.

“If you’ll allow my suggestion,” she said as she sat on the small stool by the bed, “I find little lifts my spirits like Shakespeare.”

His gaze shifted from her to the book, and he opened it, slowly scanning the first few pages as he flipped through them, gently running his fingers over the type as if he could absorb the meaning through them. She placed her hand over his on one page, and he stopped – both moving and breathing – as he looked up at her.

“That’s me,” she said, smiling. She moved her hand from his to point to the word just above his fingers. “Miranda. I don’t think _The Tempest_ will quite be of comfort to you at the moment, however.”

He returned her smile as he breathed again. The whirl of confusion in his head seemed to slow, though nothing made more sense; his legs still throbbed with dull pain, he could not read, did not know what Shakespeare was or _The Tempest_ or why it would or wouldn’t be helpful, but he knew her smile, he knew her touch, and he knew her name.

Her smile faded a little, and she blinked a few times as her gaze dropped from his face to a spot on the floor. His smile faded in turn, inclining his head to see her face. She lifted her head, re-focusing her gaze, and smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He flipped quickly through the book, running his fingers down this page and that. He finally settled on a page and pointed at a word, hoping it made sense.

“Go to Flint Castle: there I’ll pine away…” Miranda read aloud, quietly. “Flint Castle?” She squinted at him inquisitively.

He pointed again, at the smaller word.

“Flint. Oh!” she exclaimed. “Your name. Flint?”

He nodded emphatically, delighted at having stumbled upon a usable name, and her smile warmed. “Oh,” she said with sudden recollection. “I meant to offer you some tea.” He nodded again, and she poured him a cup. The offers of milk and sugar were met with affirmative nods as well. She handed him the cup, and turned to make her own as he took a sip. He gasped, having not expected its heat, and the tea fell down his shirt, staining the white cotton.

“Oh no,” she said as she put the teapot down. She took his cup and set it on the tray before standing up. “I’ll go get you another-“

He pulled his shirt off over his head, and looked up to see Miranda still standing halfway between the bed and the door, frozen staring at him. The look on her face was one he recognised: the gentle admiration, the longing for something still in sight, the flames peeking through her eyes – not the flames of rage, but the comforting warmth of a fireplace aglow. It was the same look she had had when she bid the prince goodbye.

She moved slightly closer to him, and the closing of the distance felt like bringing magnets together, a breath of relief at drawing close to the wanted object – but she only moved close enough to take the shirt from his hand. He gazed at her wide-eyed, almost forgetting to blink. The shirt almost fell from his hand into hers, and he felt himself pulled forward as she moved back, smiling slyly as she closed the door behind her.

-

The handle on the door moved, and James quickly picked up the book from the bedside table, pretending to read. He looked up with a smile as the door opened, but the smile lessened upon realising it was only a maid with his dinner on a tray. He was grateful that he was still considered ill enough to be excused from dining downstairs, but the knowledge that an acceptable length of time to be an invalid would come and go and still the pain would accompany him nagged at the back of his mind.

The maid smiled politely as she carefully placed the tray on the table. James returned the smile. Her eyes lingered on his book, and she cleared her throat as she straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her. “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

He shook his head, but she didn’t leave. She nodded toward his book. “You can’t read, sir, can you?”

His jaw dropped in indignation before he pursed his lips and renewed his affected concentration.

The maid giggled. “The book’s upside down, sir.”

He looked from her to the book, and sighed, closing it. She lowered herself into the stool by the bed. “I could teach you, sir, if you’d like.”

The maid was a good teacher, and James a quick learner. The latter fact was especially fortunate in both the subjects of reading and in learning to walk. It was not the mechanics with which he struggled, but hiding the pain slicing upwards through his legs with every step. The pain never lessened, never dulled. He never became accustomed to it; he merely learned to mask it.

His mornings were spent walking around his room, from the bed to the window, from the window to the bookshelf. Having mastered this small circuit, he progressed to walking the corridors of the palace, dressed in the prince’s clothes. The courtiers nodded politely, and James learned to return their gestures without wincing. He watched people walk, in wonder at the effortlessness of it; pain did not seem to be inherent to the human condition – merely to his own. It was a trade, he reminded himself: a trade of the dull ache of existing for the excruciating joy of living.

Miranda came for tea each afternoon, and her smile daily renewed his resolve. His nightly reading lessons with the maid enabled him to make his way slowly through the _First Folio_ , and he marked passages he liked to show to Miranda and hear her thoughts on them. He learned that she loved _Much Ado About Nothing_ , and he marked many of Beatrice’s lines, which Miranda would recite for him with vigour. He learned that she hated _The Taming of the Shrew_ , and had such thoughts about the wrongs done to Katharina that she could speak of them uninterrupted from tea to the call to dinner.

His period of convalescence ended, and he began to join the court for meals. Not being able to converse with the courtiers, he felt somewhat distant, still. But watching people was a long-favoured habit, and one to which he happily returned. James watched the younger courtiers flirt with each other across the table, smiling and giggling, the wittier among them trading quips laden with hidden meanings. Some of the older courtiers frowned disapprovingly, but some looked on fondly, even longingly, reminiscing aloud of the days when they too were young and joyful. Discussions of politics on one end of the table and fashion and society on the other rose and fell like waves, one briefly overtaking the other in volume, trading back and forth. Miranda sparkled, and not just due to the jewels adorning her; she was charming and clever, and though there was so much happening at the court’s meals, James could hardly pay attention to anything but her. She would catch him gazing at her and smile, that smile that she reserved for him and the prince, and he felt as if he caught fire each time.

The date of the prince’s expected return came and went. Miranda began joining James on his morning walks through the palace, linking her arm in his and resting her free hand on his arm as they walked. Having completed the Shakespeare volume, James went to the bookshelf to replace it, and picked up the book beside it, a red-bound volume with gold lettering on the spine identifying it as _Mediations_ by Marcus Aurelius. He sat in bed reading it when Miranda arrived with tea one day, and a tear escaped the corner of her eye as she put the tray down on the table. James reached over to wipe the tear from her face with his thumb, fixing her with a look of concern.

“It’s alright,” she protested, taking a deep breath and straightening her back. “It was…it _is_ one of his favourites,” she said softly. The warm fire in her eyes turned cold and distant for a moment.

They never spoke of the prince. Even if James could speak, he wasn’t sure he could tell her what he saw. On his brighter days, he convinced himself that he couldn’t know for sure what had happened after he was knocked out. On his darker days, he knew the sea did not practise mercy. The subject of the prince often approached their conversations, and both Miranda and James could feel the weight of his absence begin to fall on them. But Miranda always changed the subject. Her hope existed best untouched, unacknowledged. To give voice to it was to accept that it was possible to be wrong; to accept the existence of hope necessitated an acceptance of the possibility of that hope being dashed.

On their now joint morning walks, James noticed the courtiers looking at them differently. When he first began these walks he observed pity, concern, and disgust in the glances the courtiers gave him. When he began to walk more confidently, there was a palpable ease of tension, relief that he could blend in among them to a degree and not disrupt the way of things. The looks now given to him and Miranda changed yet again; they seemed to scrutinise the pair, as if they were three steps ahead in a game of chess and the courtiers were desperate to discover their plan. Some were disapproving, some were more lightly intrigued. James was not sure what exactly it was they were judging, and could not spare the concentration from hiding the piercing pain in his legs as he pretended to stroll carelessly. If Miranda knew, she held it close to her chest.

The chill in the breeze that had been refreshing in early summer turned hostile, and the sea’s pretence of welcoming disappeared, turning the waves choppy and dark. The last of the ships trickled back into the harbour to wait out the winter. James left the palace for the first time since arriving months earlier, accompanying Miranda to the docks. She did not tell him why she went, but he did not need her to. They stood silently on the dock until the sun set, Miranda clutching James’s arm ever tighter.

A thunderclap jolted James awake in the middle of the night. His room was dark, the moon’s usual illumination intercepted by stormclouds. He reached over toward the table to light the candle, but before he could, his door opened, quickly but quietly, and Miranda entered the room, holding a candle in one hand and closing the door with the other. She turned to face him, and the trails made by tears down her face caught the light from the candle. Before he could react, she flung herself at him, the candle holder clattering on the bedside table as she hastily dropped it.

Her arms clasped around his neck and she pressed her face into his shirt as she sobbed. He hesitantly, shakily placed his arms around her, his hands at the small of her back. Her grip tightened and she drew her body closer to him. She felt so small beneath her long, loose linen night-dress, though she was not a small woman. She had always seemed to him to take up so much space, that seeing this sorrowful being curled around him seemed someone else entirely. Her tears stained his shirt, creating warm, wet patches.

“Flint,” she whispered. “I just know something’s happened to Thomas. I know it.”

Unsure how to respond, he stroked her long brown hair. He had never seen her wear it down before, and the length of it surprised him.

She pushed herself up, their eyes meeting for a moment before she leaned forward and kissed him. She tasted like home, salty from tears. They broke apart and she looked at him, searching his eyes for an answer she knew she couldn’t have in words.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pushing herself up out of the bed. “I shouldn’t have-“

He reached out and took her hand. _Don’t go,_ he thought as loudly as he could, hoping to convey something in his eyes that she could read. _When you leave you take my heart with you. It is so cold without you. Don’t go._

She looked at him inquisitively, desperately trying to read his face. The stress in her expression melted away, suddenly, and she lowered herself back into his embrace.

-

James awoke to a bright, grey morning, and Miranda asleep next to him, her hand delicately resting on his chest. He closed his eyes again, committing to memory the feeling of her touch, the sound of her soft breathing, the warmth of her company. His eyes opened again as he realised he felt drawn to leave the bed, in equal measure to his desire to stay in it with her. He moved as quietly and slowly as possible, trying not to wake her as he left the bed. The slow movement was excruciating, but he gritted his teeth as he stood, hobbling over to the chair on which his clothes for the day were laid out.

He dressed and carefully opened the door, closing it quietly behind him. It was not uncommon to hear the voices of courtiers in the palace halls early in the morning, but there was a voice James did not recognise. His heart pounded with each step around the mezzanine, wincing without care to hide his pain. He turned the corner to descend the main staircase, and saw a tall blond man standing with his back turned toward James as he spoke to two courtiers. He could not hear what anyone in the group was saying; the throbbing pulse of blood through his ears drowned out all sound. One of the courtiers looked over the man’s shoulder at James, and the man turned.

Thomas had lines in his face that James did not remember seeing before. His hair was matted with sand and salt, blown stiff by sea winds. The smell of the sea lingered on him. James walked slowly down the staircase, and Thomas’s expression eased slightly, a gentle, awestruck smile spreading across his face.

“That suits you much better than it ever did me,” he said. James looked confused for a moment, before realising Thomas referred to his clothes. He grinned, looking down sheepishly.

James had forgotten anyone else was in the room before one of the courtiers cleared his throat. “Your Highness, this is Mr. Flint, your wife’s guest. He is mute.”

Thomas’s gaze had not left James’s face for a moment. He nodded slightly and extended a hand to James, who took it with a bow. Thomas laughed quietly, clasping his other hand over James’s. “That will not be necessary, my friend,” he said. James looked up into his blue eyes, lost for a moment in the light inside them. He, like Miranda, was a fire, but her warmth was controlled in a way Thomas’s was not. Thomas was an unstoppable force of nature, bursting at the seams with energy.

“Thomas?”

James turned and Thomas looked up to see Miranda, fully dressed though with her hair still loose, rushing down the stairs. Thomas released James’s hand to embrace Miranda as she flung herself onto him, tears spilling down her cheeks. She clasped him to her as if she was afraid he would slip through her fingers.

“My darling,” he whispered into her ear as he held her close.

The courtiers looked at each other, then slowly backed out of the hall. The man who had introduced James gave him a look, hinting that he should give the prince and princess some space as well. But he could not bear to tear himself from their side. He recalled treading water just below the dock, reaching up to touch the planks beneath their feet with his fingertips; if he reached out now, he could touch them. Their combined fire beckoned to him, drawing him into their warmth.

Miranda drew back, looking into Thomas’s face as they beamed at each other. She put her hands to either side of his face, then against his chest. Satisfied that he was not a mirage, she sighed.

Before she could speak, Thomas interjected, “I will explain everything.”

“As will I,” she said, looking significantly at James, then back to Thomas.

-

James returned to his room as Miranda and Thomas departed for their own quarters. He eased himself slowly into the bed, the wheels of his mind whirring uproariously, but no thoughts came to him: a cacophony of meaningless sound. He took _Meditations_ from the bedside table and laid it open in his lap, though he could not focus on the words. He skipped breakfast, and wasn’t sure why; there was nothing he wanted more than to be around Thomas and Miranda. He was uneasy, shaky like he had been for his first steps. He couldn’t even walk around his room; he felt absolutely frozen in place, sitting up in his bed.

He heard their voices in the hall approaching his room, and he lowered his head, staring blankly at the pages of the book. The door opened, and Thomas held the usual tray with a teapot and – three teacups, this time. Miranda followed, her smile shifting from Thomas to James without a flicker of change. He returned the smile reflexively, feeling the warmth of them seep into him, thawing him out.

Thomas set the tray down on the bedside table, and James saw a bowl of soup on it behind the teapot.

“We noticed you skipped breakfast,” Thomas said, following James’s line of sight. He picked up the bowl and handed it to James, who took it, allowing the touch of his fingers on Thomas’s to linger. Thomas smiled.

Miranda sat on the bedside stool, as she usually did, and poured the tea. Thomas walked across the room to pick up the chair at the desk and set it next to Miranda.

“I see you’ve discovered the emperor,” Thomas said as he sat down, gesturing to the book.

“I told Flint he was your favourite,” Miranda said, smirking as she set the teapot down and handed Thomas his teacup.

“I hadn’t met him yet, how did you know?” Thomas returned her smirk.

She laughed heartily, closing her eyes and throwing her head back. James hadn’t seen her do that before. He wondered how long it had been since she laughed – really laughed, not the bemused chortles elicited from the passages he marked to share with her. He wished he could make her laugh like that.

Thomas’s words had washed over him at first, and as they registered in his head, he shook his head slightly and blinked incredulously, looking over at Thomas. Thomas merely raised an eyebrow over his teacup as he drank.

“I meant Marcus Aurelius, you fool,” Miranda said, nudging him with the side of her leg. “Speaking of whom,” she said, gesturing toward the book with her teacup, “I see you’ve turned down a page.”

“Mm,” Thomas hummed excitedly, finishing his sip of tea. “May I?” He reached his hands out, and James placed the book in his hands. Thomas flipped the page back to the page with the turned-down corner, and cleared his throat before reading it aloud.

“It’s unfortunate that this has happened. No. It’s fortunate that this has happened and I’ve remained unharmed by it—not shattered by the present or frightened of the future. It could have happened to anyone. But not everyone could have remained unharmed by it. Why treat the one as a misfortune rather than the other as fortunate? Can you really call something a misfortune that doesn’t violate human nature? Or do you think something that’s not against nature’s will can violate it? But you know what its will is. Does what’s happened keep you from acting with justice, generosity, self-control, sanity, prudence, honesty, humility, straightforwardness, and all the other qualities that allow a person’s nature to fulfil itself? So remember this principle when something threatens to cause you pain: the thing itself was no misfortune at all; to endure it and prevail is great good fortune.”

Miranda smiled at James somewhat mysteriously. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, and yet – he couldn’t decipher what it was in her eyes that he saw.

Thomas placed a hand on the book, almost caressing the words on the page. “We must be kindred spirits, Flint,” he said, looking up at James and smiling. “This is one of my favourite passages.”

James’s face felt numb, and he hoped he was returning the smile.

-

Thomas’s return rejuvenated the palace, bringing light to the dull halls and energy to the fading courtiers. The question upon everyone’s lips was answered at dinner the first night. The dining room was full to bursting with every member of the court within reach of the palace, many of whom had rushed back just for the evening on hearing of the prince’s reappearance.

“There was a great thunderstorm the night we set sail,” Thomas began his tale. Bowls of soup sat losing their heat in front of the transfixed crowd. “A bolt of lightning cut the Calpurnia in half, and the churning waves swallowed the ship, and the rest of my crew.”

The drama Thomas imbued into his storytelling elicited gasps of fright from some of the courtiers. James, for his part, tried to look surprised. He glanced at Miranda, now seated at the opposite end of the table with her chin in her hand, visibly endeavouring to hold her composure.

“I remember…grasping at the wreckage, desperately trying to stay afloat, and then…nothing,” he spoke softly, his gaze wandering into middle distance. His storyteller voice resumed, loud and animated: “Until I awoke on the shore of some island, whose name I still do not know. A lush jungle hid the nearest village from me at first, but I heard sounds in the trees, whispering and mumbling.”

Some of the younger courtiers looked excited, intrigued by the mystery of a landscape they could hardly imagine. James couldn’t help but smile at their faces, such raw exuberance in their expressions. Thomas continued, “The inhabitants and I had no common language, but with their help I recuperated. I helped them grow their crops, harvest coconuts from the tall palms. Eventually, a ship arrived with Spanish traders. Again, I could not quite converse with them, but I managed to secure passage as far as Nassau. And from Nassau, I made my way back here.”

“A fact for which I am endlessly grateful,” said Miranda, raising her glass. The courtiers raised their own, and drank a toast to Thomas. Thomas locked eyes with Miranda over their glasses, and both shifted their gaze to James, who nearly choked on his wine.

The daily afternoon tea with Miranda became the daily afternoon tea with Miranda and Thomas. Miranda was quieter than she had been when it was just her and James, but she did not appear unhappy; she seemed content to watch Thomas enthusiastically ramble. James could understand the appeal; the light in Thomas’s eyes as he talked about the things he loved seemed to brighten the whole room.

James found walking with the support of two people made the ever-present pain in his legs much more bearable, and his daily walks along the palace halls lengthened considerably with the accompaniment of Thomas and Miranda. The courtiers’ suspicious glances had not stopped since Thomas’s return; if anything, they had increased in frequency. Miranda seemed to hold her head higher than she had before, though whether this was attributable to Thomas’s presence or to a response to the courtiers, James could not determine. James was equally unsure if Thomas did not notice the courtiers or did not care, but in either case, he surmised he could ignore it as well.

The afternoon discussions moved on from Marcus Aurelius, down the shelves through Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. One day Miranda and Thomas arrived with tea as James began scene five of _Iphigenia in Aulis_. Thomas leaned in close to James as he read the page over his shoulder, his hand gently curling over James’s to move his fingers down the page. James turned to look at him, almost no air between their faces. Thomas smiled gently as he met James’s gaze.

Miranda smirked fondly at them as she poured the tea. Thomas cleared his throat, taking the book from James as he sat by the bed. “We really must find you less melancholy diversions, my dear. Perhaps a nice Aristophanes next.”

Miranda sipped her tea, reading the page over Thomas’s shoulder from her seat beside him. “Clytemnestra is quite understandable, don’t you think?” she said lightly.

James looked at her inquisitively, and Thomas hummed thoughtfully. “I do understand the impulse, but you recall how that ended for her.”

“I didn’t say it was _wise_ ,” Miranda replied. “I said it was understandable. This man kills her husband, marries her by force, then murders their daughter? I’d want to kill him, too.”

Thomas tilted his head, looking at her with equal parts awe and amusement. “Remind me never to anger you, my dear.”

She smiled sweetly. There was silence for a moment as they all sipped their tea. Miranda lowered her teacup and looked down at it, frowning slightly.

“You look pensive,” Thomas said.

She nodded slightly, raising her head and tilting it slightly. “What I said a moment ago, about Clytemnestra’s lack of wisdom,” she said slowly, as if collecting her thoughts and placing them in order with great care. “I do not think she was unaware of the possible consequences. I think she may have even known it would be the death of her. It was…the moment. The joy of ending one hand of tyranny. Perhaps another would come, true, but- to put an end to it with your own hands…”

There was a knock at the door as she trailed off. She and Thomas turned as the door opened, and a servant entered the room with a curt bow.

“Your Highnesses,” he said. “The King’s carriage approaches.”

Miranda and Thomas looked at each other, a flicker of panic behind their confused expressions. “Were we expecting him?” asked Thomas. Miranda shook her head.

“We will be downstairs to receive him,” Thomas said with a wave, dismissing the servant.

As the door closed behind the servant, Thomas and Miranda sighed deeply. Their worry settled over the room like a thick blanket, smothering James. “Whatever he wants, it won’t be good,” Thomas said darkly.

James slid his open hand across the bed toward Thomas, a silent plea in his eyes. Thomas smiled, and took his hand.

-

James stood awkwardly behind Thomas and Miranda as they waited in the hall to greet the king. He shifted his weight from leg to leg, forward and backward, side to side. No shift of movement eased the pain that seemed to pierce straight up from the soles of his feet to just under his eyeballs.

Miranda’s hands were folded in front of her, and Thomas’s behind him. Her hair had been hastily pinned up, a single strand poking out the side of the simple chignon. Thomas had changed into a pale blue suit, but Miranda had not changed out of her scarlet dress; they looked like pillars of fire and ice in front of James.

“His Majesty, King Alfred,” a servant announced as the grand doors opened. The king strode through, dressed entirely in gold, an imposing man despite not reaching his son’s height. Miranda dipped into a low curtsy and Thomas bowed. James hastily followed suit. The king approached Thomas, looking sideways at Miranda, then at James.

“I need to speak with you,” he said curtly to Thomas, with no trace of warmth or welcome. He did not wait for a response, turning abruptly and walking to Thomas’s study across the hall. Miranda rose with a worried look on her face and touched Thomas’s arm. He smiled at her, the attempt at comfort only just shining through the dark cloud settling into the lines on his face. James stood frozen in place, but Thomas looked up, giving him the same shrouded smile, before turning and following the king.

The study door closed behind Thomas, and Miranda sighed, wringing her fingers as she turned her back to the door. James took a step toward her, and she turned, embracing him and resting her face on his shoulder. They held each other tightly as Miranda took a deep, stuttering breath, and let it out shakily.

Muffled, indiscernible voices were barely audible through the study door. James’s gaze did not leave the door as he absently rubbed Miranda’s back. She pulled back with a sigh. “I’m going to go read. I cannot just stand here and-“ She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and sighed again. “I’m going to pretend he isn’t here.” James took her hand and squeezed it, and she smiled, reached up to kiss his cheek, and walked up the stairs.

He stood in the hall, hearing the click of Miranda’s shoes on the floor fade further away and the muffled voices from the study grow louder. A door closed upstairs, and the only sounds James now heard were from the study. He moved closer to the door, his eyes fixed upon it as though a concentrated stare would allow him to see. There was a sound of someone hitting a table. “Do you think I don’t know what’s happening in my own house?”

James swallowed hard, and hesitantly leaned closer, pressing his ear to the door.

“-but he cannot stay here. Your wife is trouble enough, but _this_ , this I will not suffer-“

James took a step back, a sensation breaking over him like a cold wave. He did not know the king, but he was sure somehow this was not a man who could be persuaded. He was afraid of what the king might do – not because he had any idea of what the king _could_ do, but the complete dearth of ideas was itself terrifying. James had always relished the unknown, but now it felt like staring into a black whirlpool, ready to swallow him in the undertow.

He took the stairs two at a time, rushing back to his room and closing the door behind him quickly. He slid down against it, panting, and buried his face in his hands.

“Oh, James. You’ve warmed my heart so.”

James knew that cold oil slick of a voice. He raised his face to see the sea witch perched on the balcony railing, facing the beach, her long black hair floating as if she were still underwater. She turned to fix him with her pupil-less orange eyes. She grinned, and the sharp tips of her teeth were visible.

“There I was, warning you against following your heart, and didn’t you show me,” she said. The lilting tone in her voice was almost taunting. “They truly do love you.”

_’You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want something,’_ James thought. _’What is it?’_

She laughed. “It’s never about what I want. Merfolk don’t visit me to have me give them what _I_ want. But as it happens…”

She spun around, facing James, who rose and hobbled over to stand in front of her. She reached out, tracing his jawline with her finger, the long, sharp nail gently scraping his skin. “I like you, James. And I like happy endings. I’m here to offer you one.”

She drew her hand back from his face, and with a flourish, the dark knife with which she had taken his tongue materialised in her hand.

James gulped, drawing back. She clicked her tongue. “I’m not here to take anything more from you,” she chided. “This time, you wield it.” She held it by the blade, offering the handle to James. He looked down at it, then back to her face.

“Take this dagger,” she said, her voice oozing and surrounding him like thick liquid. “Plunge it into the king’s heart before sunrise, and I will restore your tongue.”

He frowned, confused. _’What do you get out of this?’_

“I told you, I like happy endings.” She pushed it toward James. “Take it.”

He hesitated, scrutinising her face. He gingerly closed his hand around the handle of the blade, and as soon as he did, the witch vanished. He stood at the window, looking up at the sliver of the waning moon in the dusk.

He stood at the window as dusk faded into dark. The tide receded, leaving kelp- and barnacle-covered rocks standing in the sand. The waves softly beat against the shore in time with the twinkling of the stars. All the peace seemed to be out in the world, and not in his head.

No coherent words formed arguments in his head. It was a loud buzzing, a neverending thunderclap that filled his thoughts. He held the dagger in his hand, not looking at it, but feeling its weight.

Not conscious of having made any decision, his feet moved, taking him to the door with the dagger in his hand. He opened the door quietly, leaving it open behind him. The palace was quiet, all the courtiers having left for the evening. He turned the corner toward the king’s room. The door to Thomas and Miranda’s bedroom was slightly ajar, and he peeked around the door as he passed. Thomas slept, his chest softly rising and falling, but Miranda sat in the seat at the window, her hand flat on the volume of the works of Euripides closed in her lap.

She looked up and saw him. “Flint,” she whispered, standing and leaving the book on the seat behind her. As she approached him, he saw the tears staining her face, and as she reached up to kiss him he felt the cold moisture on his face.

She drew back, running her fingers down his arms – and found the dagger. She looked up at him in wild alarm, and he nodded his head toward the king’s room. All the weight seemed to lift from her shoulders as tears renewed their tumbling out of her eyes. “Oh, Flint, please,” she whispered. “Please do it for me. Please do it for me,” she repeated, snaking her arms around his waist and holding him tight.

He let out a breath as if he’d been hit hard enough to knock it out of him, and felt the turmoil in his head fade to silence. His head cleared, and the only words that formed in the calm were, “For her. For them.”

Miranda’s arms dropped from around him as he walked away, and she clutched the side of the door, holding it in front of her, peering around the side from behind. James crept along the hall, and slowly opened the king’s door.

The king slept soundly and quietly. James stepped on agonising tiptoe toward the bed. He hesitated – he looked at the balcony railing, remembering the sea witch’s fearsome smile – and Miranda’s face, bright and beaming, followed in his mind, and Thomas’s gentle, sly smile. _For them,_ his mind repeated, _for them._ He raised the dagger, holding his breath - _for them_ \- and plunged the dagger into the king’s heart.

The breath left the king, and his eyes flew open in terror and anger. A flicker of fear passed James’s mind, but the litany _for them, for them_ bolstered his nerve. He struck again, and drops of blood stained his hands. The king stilled, his mouth frozen open and his eyes dull and dark.

James turned away from the bed but stopped, feeling a twinge in the stub of his tongue. He collapsed to the floor as a burning sensation filled his mouth. He gasped for air, clawing at the floor as his tongue felt stretched, prickling with the pain of becoming. The agony overtook him, and the world went black.

He awoke in the early hours of the morning on the floor of the king’s room. The sun’s first rays touched him through the open window. He sat up, clearing his throat with a cough. The sensation of having a tongue in his mouth was unfamiliar now, after so long without.

He suddenly realised where he was and what had happened, and scrambled to his feet. The pain in his legs was no less sharp. He looked around for the dagger, purposefully avoiding looking at the king’s body. He heard voices from downstairs, and knowing he could waste no more time, quickly and quietly returned to his own room.

He removed the clothes he had been wearing. He had not remembered getting so much blood on himself. He wiped the blood off his hands with a clean corner of the shirt, balled all the bloody clothes together, and hid them underneath the bed. He braced his hands on the back of the chair at his bedside – it was rarely returned to the desk – and took a deep breath.

James dressed, and reached for the doorknob. He heard another door in the hall open, and he paused. The sound of Miranda’s heels went first toward the other end of the hall, and he heard another door open – the king’s. His heart pounded as his hand hovered over the doorknob. The click of Miranda’s shoes sounded again, passing his room and heading down the stairs. He opened the door quietly, and followed her down the stairs, pausing outside the dining room and listening. 

“My father is sleeping uncommonly late. I am not inclined to send someone to wake him,” Thomas said with a light-hearted chuckle.

“Thomas,” Miranda said, softly, slowly, as if approaching the subject on tiptoe. “Your father is dead.”

There was silence in the room.

“How- how-“ Thomas stuttered.

“I don’t really know,” said Miranda. “Perhaps his heart gave out. If he still had one.”

“No,” James croaked, his voice crackling from disuse as he turned the corner and entered the room. Thomas stood up from his chair at the opposite end of the table, and Miranda’s jaw dropped. James cleared his throat, stopping at the middle of the table, standing between them. “No,” he repeated, his voice stronger though still gravelly. “My name is James. And I killed your father.”

Miranda’s mouth moved wordlessly, as if she was trying to say a thousand things at once but nothing came through. Thomas was still, almost calm, looking appraisingly at James.

“I could tell you how but that doesn’t matter. What matters is why. And I did it because I love you,” he said, the strength in his voice fading to a gentle plea. “I love you both, so dearly.” He looked from Thomas to Miranda, and back to Thomas. “If you must send me away still, I understand. But I couldn’t leave without telling you.”

Thomas said nothing, and walked purposefully over to James. James opened his mouth to speak, and Thomas placed a hand on the back of his head and kissed him. He was soft and warm, and James saw light instead of dark behind his closed eyes. Thomas leaned back, and James lamented losing his warmth.

“My father,” Thomas said softly, “Was killed by a man named Flint. Do you know anyone by that name, James?”

James laughed a burst of relieved laughter, and a tear he hadn’t realised was forming spilled out of his eye. He kissed Thomas fervently, and when he felt Miranda’s gentle caress at the small of his back, he turned to kiss her, too.

It was said of the palace during the reign of King Thomas that it was illuminated day and night, neither by the sun nor by candlelight, but by the smiles of the king and his consorts. Intellectuals, philosophers, scientists, historians: the palace was always full of stimulating conversation and spirited debates, and Thomas, Miranda, and James were always at the centre of them. And though they ushered in an age of knowledge and innovation, what they themselves were remembered for was love. To the end of their days, they overflowed with joy, never forgetting what they had overcome to win this life together. The sea witch had told James that no beauty above the water compared to anything below, but he knew she was wrong; wherever true love is found, in the water or on the land, is the most beautiful place on earth, and for James and his partners, there was nowhere more beautiful than their palace at the edge of the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first Black Sails fic aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> I’m verhexen on Tumblr if you want to come say hi ♥


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